Relationship Therapy
by sfiddy
Summary: Dr. John Watson took Mycroft's advice and fired his therapist and got a new one, as required by his Army discharge. This one has a different focus: relationships. Unsurprisingly, things get a little pear-shaped, especially when a case gets involved. A little ridiculous, angst-free, and a respite from the Reichenfeels.


.

John was uncomfortable. The chair was overlarge, and the coffee table was just a touch too far away. It was annoying and forced the occupant of the chair to scoot forward like a child to get to their cup. His new therapist however, a behemoth of a man to whom the room was scaled, looked perfectly at ease.

"Well, John. Have you given any thought to the strategies we discussed during our last session?"

John had little time for anything other than his clinic duties and the usual night crawling with Sherlock. A fortnight had passed since he'd last given his sessions any thought. In fact, it hadn't crossed his mind since the last time he signed out of the notepad-wielding giant's office.

"Not much, I admit. I meant to, really."

"Of course you did." If John wasn't so familiar with it, the indulgent and paternal smile would have been comforting. "Perhaps we covered too much ground last time. Sometimes when we consider ways of changing our habits, it does not do to look at the big picture, even when it is our goal." The pencil -he actually wrote with a regular pencil- tapped on the notepad as the therapist twirled it between his fingers. "Maybe we should back off a bit and try something easier. When was the last time you met your friend from your medical school days?" A page in the file flipped up. "Stamford? When was the last time you met him for a drink?"

John thought for a moment. It had been a while. In fact, it had been a long while. Between work and playing Sherlock's blogger as well as personal assistant, time for amusement had been short. The last two weeks had been completely filled by a murder case, two thefts, one case of delusions (a client's, not Sherlock's), and nearly being disgraced at the clinic when Sherlock barged into his consult and proceeded to berate a nervy housewife for her illicit habits based on her purse strap. Not to mention a series of grocery trips for ever-increasing orders of nicotine patches and vanilla extract. He still had no idea what the vanilla was for.

A pint with Stamford sounded lovely.

He looked up. The therapist was watching him. "Uh, it's been at least a month. Maybe two. I probably need to talk to him. I could do with a bit of catching up."

"Excellent." The therapist set his notes on the coffee table and scribbled notes onto a smaller pad. It was difficult not to lean forward for the cup at these times. Animal behaviourists say that mirroring actions showed non-aggression as well as a desire to create common ground. Nowhere in the textbooks did it mention fulfilling an army discharge requirement. This counselor had skipped the post-traumatic stress syndrome narrative and zeroed in on his lack of a social life.

"Now here is your assignment." He snapped the page from the pad and pushed it across the table. "You are to spend no less than two hours catching up with Stamford surrounded by mixed company."

John sighed; he'd been bracing for the worst. "Well, that's a relief. I've been meaning to-"

"You will buy a woman a drink."

.

John had to shove his arm between the door and its frame to keep it from slamming. It would only pique Sherlock's interest in what might be his trouble, and frankly John was in no mood for another session.

"_Mrs. Hudson_!" Sherlock was in one of his moods. They often happened when John had been out for too long and Sherlock didn't have a case to keep him occupied. "This salt has iodine! How can I be expected to make a proper solution with contaminant built right into the reagent? _I need proper salt_!"

The harried woman appeared in the hallway as John set his coat upon the hook. "Oh goodness, dear. You're back." Mrs. Hudson fumbled with a small box and held onto the stair rail.

"Is everything alright? You're quite out of breath!"

"I'm just fine dear, but Sherlock..." she glared up the stairs, "Is in one of his fits. Everything bubbling away and he's making such a fuss. I've nearly cleaned out my pantry to find what he wants, and it never seems right." Ever dignified, she smoothed her hair with a manicured hand and held out the box. "Be a love and take this to him? I need a cuppa and good sit. My hip, you know."

John took the box of salt and turned to reach into his coat pocket to retrieve his phone. "Sure, but can you tell me-" When he turned back around, Mrs. Hudson was halfway down the hallway again.

The sitting room was humid with the steam and vapor bubbling from the kitchen. To one side of the chaos, leaning over a scale and bent nearly in half, was Sherlock, his hand was poised in the air, holding a spoon and delicately tapping it to drop, grain by grain, whatever powder it held. His eyes were fixed upon the read-out.

"Where is Mrs. Hudson? She is supposed to bring me real salt." His voice was sullen and flat in that 'you-are-all-so-stupid' tone. "I nearly ruined my experiment with that contaminated stuff she brought me."

"She sent it with me. Here." John set the box on the counter right next to the scale, making it jump. "Table salt has iodide added as a public health benefit. The incidence of thyroid dysfunction has been nearly eliminated since it was done." John pulled the refrigerator open and started pulling out meat, cheese and spread.

"The world should suffer goiters. I have work to do." Sherlock sighed dramatically and dumped the powder on the scale back into its plastic jar. "So, how was it?"

"How was what?" John continued assembling his sandwich.

"Your session. You can't possibly expect me to infer _every_ detail of your session based solely on the fact that you are home forty-seven minutes later than normal without having gone shopping or out to eat. You are so distracted that you have yet to express disgust at the fact that I have half rotted meat in my separatory funnel, and you aren't even bothering with your usual and pointless greeting." Sherlock switched off the burner and set his glassware back in the refrigerator, something that John tried very hard to not see.

"It wasn't what I was expecting. To be honest, it was bloody awful at the end and I'd rather not relive it just now." John bit down and took his plate to his desk and purposefully opened his laptop, leaving the kitchen in silence.

"Hmmmm."

John swallowed and waited. The laptop chirped for his password, but his hands paused as he listened. "Well?"

"Hmm?"

"What do you mean 'hmm'? You did that thing."

"Which thing? I do many things."

John slapped the laptop closed. "The thinking thing!" He turned around in his chair and glared at Sherlock. "You're thinking about my therapy and what happened. Don't."

"I'm also thinking about my filament extraction which you interrupted. The fact that you bashed my scales about brought your therapy to the forefront." Sherlock jotted in his lab notebook as he walked into the sitting room and set it on his desk. "Passive-aggressive outbursts are not like you, John."

"Buying random women drinks isn't like me either, but apparently it's what I should be doing."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "So that's his diabolical plan? I'll alert the Yard."

"Shut up, Sherlock. The nice bit is that I'm going with Stamford." John relaxed at this thought. That call had gone well at least. A quick chat and a promise to meet the following Friday evening to do that catching up they'd both been meaning to do these last few weeks. "So, I'll be out on Friday night."

"Fine. I'll be free to finish this extraction then."

"What are you working on? A new case?"

Sherlock smiled. "No, it's just a follow up on an old one. It seems a particular subclass of muscle filaments assemble only under very particular conditions. Some diseases or toxins can interfere, so I'm trying to isolate them so I can try it ex-vivo."

"I see. Did you use that bit of leftover pork? I meant to bin it..."

"Of course not." Sherlock sniffed. "Molly got me some fresh cadaver meat. I must have the proper material."

John looked over at his sandwich, unsure and feeling a bit ill. "I'm sorry I asked."

"Incidentally, do be so kind as to not skip your outing on Friday. I'd hate to impose upon Molly again so soon. Her new coffee is fruit-flavoured and I hate it."

"Right."

.

John did his best to ignore the idea that his wallet felt lighter as he left the bar. Mike saluted him with his pint glass and shook his head. "Don't think about it, John. You'll ruin our whole night."

Grimacing, John raised his glass and took a long draught, leaving lovely windows of lace inside the glass. "At least they include the VAT. Otherwise I would have wondered if I'd paid for an extra drink already."

"Don't think like that. This is good for you." Mike shrugged. "Maybe this is just what you needed- a reason to go out."

"I saw what Sherlock got from Bart's. I would have left the flat anyway!"

"Oh? I heard Molly flapping her wings about him being there yesterday. What was he there for, then?"

John shook his head. "Some awful experiment with muscle and toxins. Nearly put me off my food just to talk about it."

Mike threw his head back with a laugh. "Must have been horrid, then!" They smirked into their ales and watched the bar churn with bodies. "So, John. Have you thought about how you're going to do this?"

John considered the current mix of women at the bar. "I'm not going to just send a drink to someone. That's a kid's move, and creepy to say the least. I can't be too picky, though."

"You can afford to be a little picky. A woman looks at me more than three seconds and I'm panting. Of course, a flight of stairs leaves me panting, but that's beside the point." Mike sized up his friend. "Besides, you've got the whole 'mysterious soldier' thing going. I'm just a fat instructor at a school."

"You're a doctor at a teaching hospital. There's a difference."

"Not one that matters when you're paying five quid for a pint."

John considered. "Well, it keeps the hoodies out. Cheap drink means fights and fuckwits." Mike grunted in agreement.

He went back to his pint and tried to observe the women in the pub like his flatmate might. The ones with large bags were probably here directly from work, and therefore either tired and in no mood for being chatted up, or in the process of becoming completely pissed. Some undoubtedly were married and merely on their way home, which might not be a bad thing- a married woman would likely demure politely (if in the company of co-workers- if alone, who knew what women did these days) and he could end this quickly knowing he'd made a woman feel wanted. Check the box marked 'good deed for the day'.

The ones with smaller and flashier evening bags, hair down, and decidedly non-sensible shoes were probably starting their night early as it was it was barely half eight. Most of these women were in groups of three or more, and rarely split up for long. Discounting any that were obviously with a man for the night, he was still left a solid number of grouped women to approach.

He'd need Stamford.

The pint glass was three-quarters empty, and the line at the bar was getting longer. "Mate, you need another?" John asked.

Stamford checked and shook his head. "I'm set for bit, thanks."

"You sure? Crowd's moving in."

"I'm settling in for a slow session. It can wait."

John rolled his eyes. "Come to the damn bar with me and play wingman. I'll pay."

Mike moved faster than John had seen in years. In seconds he was up and straightening his shirt. He was actually the perfect wingman- unassuming, smart, and actually had interesting things to say, but not as interesting as John. It didn't hurt that he'd got fat, either.

"Where are we headed?"

John surveyed the bar. "Over there. The two with pints."

Mike frowned. "Why them? There's some nice birds over-" Before he could finish, John pulled Mike behind a pillar near the bar.

"I don't want to talk to a flock of cackling birds. I want to buy a drink, chat a few minutes and then get the hell out of here. Those two women are close to our age, employed, and are drinking something I understand. They'll do."

Mike stared at John for a moment and burst out laughing. "For a minute there, I thought you were about to tell me their life story. Sometimes I wonder if Sherlock wasn't rubbing off on you."

"God, I hope not." John finished his pint and took a breath. "Let's go."

.

Getting a cab in the rain required presence. Sherlock with his billowing coat, commanding stature and laser-like focus, had presence. John had…well, usually he was with Sherlock. A man in the rain near a pub where women were competing for cabs was unlikely to get one, or keep it if he did.

With his socks squishing and nose dripping rainwater, John slid through the door and tried to decide how much of his clothing he could remove on the landing without risking sending Mrs. Hudson into shock. After stripping off his coat, outer shirt, shoes, socks, and rolling up his pants, he trudged up the stairs, cold and miserable.

Sherlock was pacing and flipping through his notebook while holding a stack of papers in the other hand. The slap of John's feet brought him to a halt.

"You're back early. I've only got my gels half-way run."

"Hello to you, too." John climbed the stairs and laid his clothes out to dry. It crossed his mind to just go to bed, but knew that would only delay the inevitable. He changed into warm dry clothes and went down.

"So, how is the experiment?"

"Excellent. Molly dropped off the electrophoresis rigs and native gels just in time. They'll be ready to take out and stain in a half hour." Sherlock looked up and grimaced. "That bad?"

John was already starting the kettle. "Yes. That bad."

"How did that happen? I thought you had a plan." Sherlock made some notes. "Get my cup, too."

"Hungry? I'm going to eat…" John looked through the refrigerator and held up a box. "Is this takeway?"

"No. Behind the-"

"Gah!"

"Gallbladder. Should be from Angelo's."

"Are those… forget it. Don't tell me." John breathed deep. "Pasta it is, then. Want any?"

"No. I'm working." Sherlock adjusted the power supply until the reading flashed 80. "So, did Mike get the better or worse conversation partner?"

"Worse. But at least his wasn't militant, just uninterested. I thought mine was going to hit me at first."

Sherlock poured a solution into the bucket of the contraption. "What were they drinking?"

John winced. "Stella."

"On your head be it, John. Next time take Harry, not Mike."

John dumped the wet noodles onto a plate and ignored the grime on the inside of the microwave. "Thanks. Somehow I'm not sure that would go over well."

"Maybe she's got some friends looking to change teams…"

"Sod off, Sherlock." John watched his flatmate fuss over the band of blue migrating down the sheets of glass inside the plastic buckets. When the microwave beeped the blue was nearly at the bottom and Sherlock was setting glass dishes out.

"So, what are you doing?"

"I have to wash the gels and stain them." Sherlock flicked his head towards the sink. "Mind the dye."

John peered into the sink at the dark purply-blue liquid. "Smurfy. Then what?"

"The size of the bands will tell me whether the filaments assembled or not. Easy."

Sherlock turned back to his experiment so John retreated to his laptop and jotted a quick email apology to Mike. By the time it was sent, the thin rectangle of transparent goo with light blue bands was floating in the dark blue dye and Sherlock was sipping tea.

"John, has it ever occurred to you that a pub isn't the best place to meet a woman?"

"It's a great place to meet women." John set his plate aside and closed the laptop. "Just not women you intend to see again."

"Then why did your therapist send you there? Is his goal to have you cultivate a relationship or merely…transact?"

"I don't know and I don't care. Especially not at… good god, is it two in the morning?"

Sherlock was genuinely surprised. "Is that the time? I have to get the gel into wash. Come."

Sherlock handed John a dish of clear solution. It smelled like vinegar, and did not agree with his belly full of beer and pasta.

"Hold it steady." Sherlock dipped a spatula under the gel and lifted it gently, then jiggled it in the dish John held until it floated free. He set the spatula down and took the dish. "Now take the dish of stain from the sink and pour into back into the bottle, if you will."

"Right, then I'm going to bed."

John lifted the large casserole from the sink and carefully tilted the corner to the blue-stained bottle. From the corner of his eye he saw that Sherlock was peering intently at the dish he held. The very, very blue dye sloshed into the bottle and –

"Ah-Ha! I knew it!"

John jostled the dish and sent the dye splashing all over his bare arms. "Shit!" He set the dish down as fast as he could, sending more dye over his hands. "Quick, Sherlock! Water!"

John pulled the bottle from the sink and ran the tap. The water had no effect on the navy blue that his skin was currently sporting. "Wait, John. Here-" Sherlock had set his dish down and was pouring a solution over a cloth. He rubbed the cloth all over John's arms and hands and the dye softened to a less intense shade.

"Thanks, Sherlock. I would have had to hide that for a week."

Still scrubbing at John's skin, Sherlock smirked. "Nothing inspires confidence in a patient than a doctor who looks, what did you say? Smurfy?"

John burst into laughter. "Did you really just crack that joke, or am I hearing things from drinking Stella?"

"I may have watched a few cartoons as a child when I wasn't sneaking fertilizer from the garden shed to use in my chemistry set." A little more scrubbing. "There. A good shower should help, too."

John rinsed his arms under the tap. "Christ, will it help with the smell?" He sniffed at his skin and retched.

"Perhaps you should soak in the bath instead of showering." Sherlock tossed the towel onto the counter and returned to the gel that his attention had been diverted from. The notebook was immediately flipped open.

After sniffing once again and deciding it was hopeless for the moment, John joined Sherlock by the dish. "So, what did you see?"

Sherlock pushed the gel around with the tip of his pen so John could see it better. "Do you see the bands in these lanes?"

"Of course." John squinted at the dish. "So, what do you have here?"

"The bands in the first lane are heavy, so they are the assembled filaments. The next lane is a controlled disassembly, the next lane is with the toxin, then a sample from the wobbly-legs case, and the next lane is the sample from the old case." Sherlock grinned with delight.

"And?"

Sherlock was already tapping on his mobile phone. "Mr. Wobbles had a nerve, not muscle problem as evidenced by his intact filaments. The victim, on the other hand…"

"Wait don't tell me…disease or toxin?"

"He was poisoned, John. I've already informed Lestrade." Sherlock drank the rest of his cold tea down and looked over the disaster that was their kitchen. "Well, that's a job well done. Off to bed." He set his cup down with a customary flourish and padded away.

"Where the hell do you think you're going? Who's going to clean this up?"

Sherlock looked back blankly. "I borrowed Mrs. Hudson's glass casserole dishes. When she wants them, she knows where to find them." With that he strode off to his room and closed the door.

With bleary eyes, John surveyed the damage. There was stain on the countertops, stacks of glassware strewn about but, thankfully, no minced cadaver. A good scientist removes potential sources of contaminant before proceeding.

The lab notebook was sitting out and John was about to move it to Sherlock's desk to protect it from…whatever was dripping from the dish it was next to. Just as he was closing it, he spotted his name in the margin.

_John home late. Bad night. Must remember to make coffee before tea in the morning. NO SUGAR_

Any residual ill will dissolved along with the crusts of drying buffers and salts as John carefully rinsed all the glass and set it to dry on towels. It was the least he could do after Sherlock managed to strangely improve his night. Besides, a good doctor removes sources of poison before his flatmate brews him a cup of coffee.

.

The therapist jotted notes, barely concealing his momentary amusement. "Now John, what do you feel like you learned or gained from this experience?" When he looked up from his notepad, Dr. Watson was eyeing him. He struck his 'concerned listener' pose and waited.

After seeing that the therapist had wiped the faint smirk from his face, John was able to answer. "Apart from not trying to hit on women that resemble my sister?" He adjusted the seams of his jumper and picked at a frayed yarn. "I missed spending time with Mike. As bad as the night ended up, at least we had something to talk about the next day."

"That's fine, John. But the goal isn't just to have a story to tell, though never underestimate the importance of the experience. This is goal oriented, and I recall that one of your goals was to establish a relationship."

John winced.

"Do you agree that you cannot start a relationship without talking to a woman first? Creating connections? Finding common interests?"

"Of course I agree, but…" John flicked the edge of his cup, recalling the steaming cup of coffee ready for him that Saturday morning. "My flat mate noted that bars may not be the best place for me."

"Perhaps not." The yellow pencil scribbled. "But it is a place where you can talk and mingle with people expecting to do the same." He reached for the prescription pad and John felt his chest tighten. "For next week, John, I'd like you to try the same thing, only this time sit down at a table. The bar may be a little too casual, and perhaps a bit risky, based on your experience."

The page tore from the pad and was slid across the table to him. He took it and read the instructions. _Sit at a table and talk. Buy one drink, and attempt coffee._

His file folder slapped shut and John stood up as his session ended. As he shook hands with the therapist and pulled his coat from the hanger by the door.

"John?"

He turned, adjusting his collar. "Yes?"

"Perhaps skip the ones drinking Stella next time, yeah?"

"Right."

.

Sherlock was laying on the couch again, prostrate either from boredom or thought. The only difference was whether he had left a note on John's desk demanding nicotine patches. John left the post on the table by his chair and glanced at his computer.

No note. Damn.

At least the gun was locked away. This time.

Hoping that his flatmate was lost in his mind palace, John slunk toward the stairs, intending to change when-

"John! I texted you no less than four times."

He took his foot off the bottom stair. "I was in session. I had my phone off."

Sherlock, eyes still closed, frowned in confusion. "Why?"

John sighed. "Because it's considerate to the therapist and other patients. Not to mention office policy."

Sherlock snapped upright, hair whirling madly. "What if a case had come in? If Lestrade had called? God man, what if I'd needed patches?" He ran his long fingers through the mop on his head and looked up at John. "Do you have the same policy for your patients?"

"Of course."

"Well, thank god for that. They're probably stupid anyway." Sherlock stood and stepped over the coffee table, straightening his dressing gown with a flourish on his way to the kettle. "So, another assignment from Dr. Love?"

John pretended he didn't hear, and got the tea ready. "No case, then? I thought you were looking at old cases from the morgue."

"I finished with three and didn't care to deal with one that was so stupidly obvious that even Dimmock could work it out. Never did a man have a better prefix built directly into his name and I do not appreciate that, John."

John's hand paused on the jam. "Sorry, what?" He could feel the sting of sharp eyes on him.

"Don't make it worse by insulting us both."

The kettle boiled.

Leaving the jam in the fridge, John stood by the counter with his mug at the ready. "Fine. He's worried that I may have started out too risky, and I should try to just sit and talk. Maybe try for coffee instead of a night at the pub. Happy?"

Sherlock looked his flatmate over. John was tense, clutching his mug by the handle and flicking his nail over a tiny imperfection in the ceramic. If he didn't know better, he might imagine that flick was to cover up the intermittent tremor. Highly uncharacteristic for a man who could shoot the heart out of a half-obstructed serial killer through a window.

"I think that is a fine idea. Don't you?"

John stopped flicking. "What?"

"You don't do well in crowds and you tend to prefer quieter conversation. I think your therapist may be on to something. Have you considered skipping the pub and simply stopping for coffee on your way to work?"

John frowned. "That's wasteful. I have a coffeepot."

Sherlock made an extravagant survey of the room. "But no women, which is the object of the exercise. Buy your coffee and read a few pages of the paper for a week. Have a chat by Wednesday, and a date for Friday night."

In utter amazement, John stared at Sherlock. "While a bit over-planned, that might be the best advice I've heard in these past few months. Why didn't I think of that?"

"Because you're an…" At John's grimace, Sherlock quickly edited himself. "You're accustomed to making your own coffee. It simply didn't occur to you." He poured hot water over the tea. It would not do to insult John while he was vulnerable.

"Right, okay." John rapped his knuckles on the counter. "Well, I'll just leave a bit early tomorrow and go to the shop next to the clinic."

"Oh, no no no."

"Why not?"

"Because your patients will be there. Go to the one furthest from your office within walking distance. No less than a kilometer away will do unless you want to risk chatting up someone whose boil you will be draining later." Sherlock poured. "Milk?"

John sighed. "I'll wear my comfortable shoes."

"Did you have any other kind?"

.

While John admitted he usually was slow to start at times, the fact that it only took him until Thursday to arrange a date seemed like a perfectly good showing. He sailed through his consults and had a third cup of coffee to enjoy the sensation of victory.

He may have skipped on the way home, but just the once.

Sherlock's gaze took him in the instant he entered the shared sitting room and quickly went back to the screen of John's laptop. He adjusted the screen and flopped back into the cushions of the couch. "So, success?"

"You're using my laptop again."

"Of course I am. Mine is in my room and I can't get up just now." He typed a bit. "Judging by the sentimental retention of your morning coffee cup and that you're not acting like you've just spent the day taking throat cultures and handing out eyedrops to goopy-eyed children, I'm assuming that you have a date."

John's smile was a mile wide and undeterred by the subtle insult. "Jeanine. We sat together this morning and shared the paper, and when I asked if she'd like to grab a bite tomorrow night, she said yes." Still grinning, John looked toward the kitchen. "You said you couldn't leave. What have you got going on today?" He set the retained cup on the kitchen table and went to the fridge to find dinner, and hopefully only dinner.

"Not much, I just didn't feel like standing." Sherlock closed the laptop. "Besides, Lestrade joked that he may have a case of the oddest nature. Someone seems to be desecrating bodies."

"Aside from you?"

John caught the faintest upturn at the corner of Sherlock's mouth. "I always have permission, and they never seem to mind. No, these are happening right before burials, sometimes in the show casket right before the family goes in to view."

"My God!" John sat down hard at the kitchen table, nearly bumping the glassware as he rubbed his forehead. "That's just horrible!"

"Isn't it? Should be delicious. What does she do?"

John glanced up. "Huh? Oh, Jeanine does some sort of event planning. She seemed very organized and knows her own mind. She even suggested where to go for dinner, ending the drama of having to figure out where to go."

"And?"

"A Spanish place. They do paella and tapas, she said." Shaking off the horror, John began to perk up again. "There's a band some Friday nights, she said."

Sherlock paused. "Are you meeting her there?"

"Around six-thirty. She said the band starts at seven, so we'll get to talk before it gets too loud."

"Hmmm." Sherlock stared into space.

"What? Don't you dare..."

Sherlock's phone beeped. "I hate tapas. Stupid tiny bits of tinned sardine. Besides, it looks like Dimmock has been assigned to the desecration case. I'm going to enjoy this. I never see them with clothes." John watched as his flatmate whirled around and snatched his coat and scarf from the hook. "Mrs. Hudson!"

The harassed woman scuffed her shoes on the wooden floor below. "What is it, Sherlock?"

John waved as Sherlock sped out the door and down the stairs. "Ham, have you any?"

"Yes." John heard from below.

"Lovely. I'll need a sandwich in approximately two hours. Ta!"

.

Jeanine's hair was still pulled back in a severe upsweep when she came into the restaurant, craning her neck like an exotic bird, looking for John.

All right, she was decidedly not exotic, but she was nice and had herself together, John thought. He raised his hand and got her attention, and was rewarded by a bright smile on her pleasantly round face.

"Hiya. Can I help you with your coat?"

She set her bag down. "Thanks, it's gotten windy out!" John set the coat on an extra chair and got a waiter's attention and they ordered drinks.

"So, were you at your clinic today?" Jeanine asked as she smoothed her suit coat. John felt decidedly underdressed in his blue shirt and trousers. She was in a tailored black suit that looked quite posh.

"Well, yes. I only work half days on Fridays. Did you work?"

Jeanine looked down at her dark suit. "Oh, don't mind this. I only have two good suits, you know, for the big days. Sometimes event planning is a bit surprising and we have important clients. Have to look the part those days!"

"That's great. I hate the white coat, but patients feel like if you don't wear one, you aren't a real doctor."

Jeanine laughed loudly. "I know exactly what you mean!"

They chatted and enjoyed their drinks. Jeanine looked down at her watch and frowned. "I'm sorry to do this, but in a few minutes I may have to step out for just a sec. My…boss may need a word, but I'll be right back!"

"No problem. I have a friend who has a bad habit of being intrusive. I completely understand."

The first plates of snacks hit the table and the open kitchen glowed yellow and red with the warm colors of seafood and saffron. More people filtered in as the band set up. John started his third drink, feeling pleasantly warm and loose when Jeanine suddenly looked down at her phone.

"Damn, it's him. I'll be back right away." She gathered up her coat. "Promise you'll be here?"

"Promise."

Jeanine stood and walked out the front door, dodging other patrons and holding her phone to her head. As the last of his drink slid down, John settled in with the dinner menu and watched the band finish setting up.

"John." A tall dark figure settled into the chair right next to John.

"Gah! Sherlock, I'm in the middle of a date!"

"I need you. Come."

"Whatever this is, no. Absolutely not. She'll be back any minute."

Sherlock looked at his watch. "I doubt it. Not before I make use of you. Come on." John's arm was firmly gripped and he was lifted bodily from his seat.

"Oh, sod this." He grabbed his coat and ran behind Sherlock, who was heading for the front door. "Wait, she'll see us leave!"

"No, she won't." They walked out the front doors to a completely empty street. "She's gone. At least for the next fifteen minutes."

John gaped at the pavement. "What the hell? Where are you going?"

"The funeral parlor viewing room, John." Sherlock brandished his arm at an ornate entrance a few doors away. "Dimmock awaits."

.

"What the hell are we doing here, Sherlock?" John was unsure if his voice was really that muffled or if it was the three stiff drinks stuffing his ears with cotton.

"Laying a trap, obviously. Do watch the placement of your elbow."

"Sorry." John squirmed. "Wait, no, I'm not sorry. Let me out of here!"

"Quiet! Do you want to give the game away?" Sherlock pressed a button on his phone and whispered. "Dimmock, where is she?"

A crackled whisper came back. "Just finishing the guest book and about to lead them in. Get ready, about two minutes now!"

Sherlock ended the call, his arm still pinned holding the phone to his ear. "I suppose it is a bit cramped in here."

"We're locked in a fucking coffin, Sherlock!" John growled. "You couldn't just stand behind a curtain?"

"This is more fun."

"I was on a date! We were drinking and having a good time. _That's_ fun. Now I'm locked in a coffin."

Dimmock gave the one-minute warning and Sherlock breathed deeply. "It's the largest one they have."

"You better get me out so I can get back. God, do they re-use these? They re-use these, don't they? Christ, I'm laying where a dead person laid!" John twitched and rolled his eyes as Sherlock tried to calm him by patting the back of his hand, the only safe place they were touching. As it was, people would talk once they saw that John was playing little spoon to Sherlock.

The screen lit up the tiny interior of the coffin once again. "She's on her way in." Sherlock tensed and got ready.

John tightened his fists. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to be ready for a fight, or just wanted to punch Sherlock a good one once they were out. Either way, it was good to be ready.

There were voices in the room, soft murmurs that John had to strain to make out. There was a man and a woman. Something unexpected had occurred, by the sound of things, and the man left the woman there to work out the problem. The whole coffin lurched slightly, throwing John off and reminding him that he had a belly full of rum and olives.

The woman's voice was muffled, but quite close to the coffin. "Damn, open up, you."

Sherlock pushed the lid. "Now, John!"

Sherlock sprang up, tossing the lid open and startling the woman so badly that she fell back, knocking over a large floral arrangement. She was covered in lilies and bits of sopping wet foam that crumbled into her black suit.

Her black suit. She looked up. "John?"

"Jeanine? What the hell are you doing?"

Her hair straggled from the pins and hung in her face. "I was just…working."

Dimmock stepped out from behind a panel and took her bag. "I see. Nice little collection, this. Is this all from today, or all week?" He held up an impressive antique brooch. "You're under arrest, Miss Lunfardo."

"Jeanine?" John's hands were limp now.

Jeanine cringed as she was led away. "I'm sorry, John. I was having a really nice time!"

Sherlock smoothed his shirt and watched John sit on a hard wooden chair. "Well, that's sorted. Dinner?"

"Dinner?" John repeated absently, still staring at the carpet.

"In the mood for Chinese? I could devour some dim sum right now."

"No olives."

.

It wasn't until John was halfway into his third cup of long-jin that the evening finally sank in. He stood quite calmly and wiped his mouth with his napkin.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked in surprise. "You can't possibly be done yet."

John slipped his arms into his coat. "No, I'm very much done for the night, thanks. Besides I have to go pay the bill that I walked out on at the Spanish restaurant."

"No, you don't. I paid it before we left."

"Of course. Then we spent a half-hour locked in a coffin together." John pulled his sleeves and dropped some money on the table. "I'm going home. I might drink myself into oblivion when I get there, so don't bother checking on me."

Sherlock stood. "Wait, I'll get a cab."

John was halfway out the door. "No, I'm walking. I need some air." He pushed the door harder than necessary and the bell banged wildly to announce his departure. It slammed shut, jarring the fish in the tank by the entrance.

After wrapping a few things and paying the bill, Sherlock left, but he did not go directly home.

.

John lay on the couch, much as Sherlock often did. The difference was that John could not touch the opposite arm with his feet when he stretched out. He hadn't bothered to turn on the tele or radio, so he clearly heard the street door open and the hard heel strike of Sherlock's gait enter the entry hall.

John stretched his toes out. Nope, he still couldn't reach.

"Another domestic? Look out, Sherlock, he's in a state."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

John left his eyes closed. He'd never fool Sherlock into thinking he was asleep, but he may get the message to back off. The footfalls grew gentler as they neared the top of the stairs and were cautious as they came into their flat. The fridge door opened, closed, and there was a crackle of plastic nearby. Curiosity nagged him, but he wasn't about to open his eyes to look unless he had to.

The room fell quiet again as Sherlock's door closed. John waited another minute before opening one eye.

There was a fresh loaf of bread on the table, and a package of his favourite biscuits on the coffee table. The fridge had opened, too, so John stood and walked to the kitchen. There was a take-away box full of dumplings. His stomach was very empty, and the dumplings were still warm.

Soon John was comfortably full and feeling pleasantly fuzzy rather than sick and hollow. An extra few fingers of single malt earlier had made sure he was properly warmed and was lending a softer focus to the whole night.

John smacked his Union flag cushion and sat in his chair. The flat was still silent, and Sherlock had yet to venture out or make as much as a peep. It was only ten, so there was no way he was asleep, and John was starting to feel lonely. He wasn't quite prepared to rap on the door yet, so he picked up his phone.

He pressed send: _Tea? JW_

A moment later: _Yes. SH_

The door opened more slowly than usual and Sherlock came out. "Not good?"

"A bit not good, yeah."

Sherlock set his laptop down, started the kettle and got out their mugs. John was far too comfortable to move, and just watched while Sherlock got out a teapot and the good tea.

"Just so I'm clear on this John," Sherlock spooned tea into the pot, "are you upset that I interrupted your date, that I locked you in a coffin, or that your date was planning a grave robbing when she should be laughing at your jokes and planning to spend the night with you?"

John's mind processed the words slowly; it was the only way to mull over such an odd collection of phrases. Somehow, they really just should not go together. "God, when you put it that way, it really is ridiculous."

Hot water went into the pot. "Yes it is, isn't it?" Sherlock fussed over the pot for no particular reason other than to avoid direct eye contact. He only looked up when he heard the chuckles.

John was turning pink, fighting the sniggers and losing. When his eyes started to water he burst into laughter. "That is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard!" He choked out.

"More ridiculous than chasing a mad cabbie through London?"

"Definitely." John caught his breath and wiped his eyes. He picked up the biscuits and joined Sherlock at the table. "How on Earth did you know?"

Sherlock poured tea and half smirked. "You said she suggested the restaurant. Women don't do that- they want their date to choose so they can judge him on it. So, she had a reason for wanting to be at that location. You said she did event planning, but not what kind, and then Dimmock showed me where the parlour was- right by a Spanish restaurant."

"That doesn't mean anything." John ripped open the package and invited Sherlock to take some biscuits."

"It doesn't mean _much_, until the employee roster noted a coordinator named Jeanine. I figured it was a better than fifty-fifty chance at that point, so I followed you."

John snapped a biscuit in half and stuck it in his tea. "And locked me in a coffin. Was that really necessary?"

"Probably not, but she made sure she was alone when she opened it so she could make her move." Sherlock smiled. "It was more fun that being behind a curtain with Dimmock."

John snorted and bobbed his head in agreement, slurping the soggy biscuit. "God. Now what do I do? How do I explain this to the therapist?"

Sherlock made a face. "You're going to see him again? Hasn't he caused enough trouble?"

"I at least need to close out." John pushed his tea away. "I'll probably just go back to the old one."

"The one who got it all wrong?"

"Yes, but at least she was trying and didn't give me assignments."

Sherlock smirked and gestured toward the bright screen of his laptop. "Other than blogging. And look how that has turned out."

John smiled and clicked the tab for his blog- it now merited a tab on Sherlock's browser. "Over two-thousand hits in three days. They like you."

"No they don't. They like you with me. Nobody likes sociopaths." Sherlock took his tea and walked to his chair, leaving the mug on the side table. He plucked the strings of his violin and wiped the bow. "And will you write up this adventure? She seemed to have rather posh tastes in shoes, perhaps 'The Leboutin Looter?"

"Christ. It can't be normal to be giggling after being locked in a coffin for a half hour. I might have to make some editorial changes." John joined Sherlock in the sitting room, setting his tea and a few more biscuits on the side table. "She ate a few olives and some tinned fish bits. Must be starving by now. What about 'The Nibbling Nighthawk'?"

Sherlock threw his head back and laughed. "Maybe we could send her some paella." With that, they both broke down into red-faced giggling.

"Hoo-hoo!"

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson." John greeted. "Are we being too loud?" Sherlock drew his bow across the strings to the tune of "God Save the Queen".

"Just checking up, dears. Sounds like you're both sorted, then?"

John, still addled with rum and whiskey, frowned in confusion. Sherlock sprang to his feet. "We're just fine, Mrs. Hudson. Everything is better."

"Oh, good. Well, I'm off to bed and I suppose you two are as well? Sherlock, dear, don't play too loudly. The neighbors don't like it at night."

Sherlock turned and continued playing. "The neighbors are dribbling morons with atrocious tastes in landladies. Good night."

.

The therapist fidgeted, unaccustomed to the fixed gaze set on him by his client-patient. Normally his patients were very self-conscious and their eyes tended to wander or stay down for the first half of the session at least, but this was different.

Dr. John Watson could not be bothered to care. "I'd like to cancel the rest of the scheduled sessions and close out my records here. I'll just take the files with me." In the interest of politeness, he added, "If you don't mind."

Setting his notebook down, the therapist folded his hands in his lap. "What happened? This is more than a bad date. Anything we can address?"

"No," John said flatly. "I think we're done here."

"But I want to help. I want to give you the tools to help you take charge of your life and make things better. We're just beginning to scratch the surface, revealing your potential-"

John's back stiffened. "I chatted up a woman who would probably prefer my sister and spent thirty quid just to get away. The only thing that saved that night was the fact that human cadaver meat in my kitchen helped solve a mysterious death."

The therapist's eyes widened. "But, the coffee?"

With a snort, John stood began to pace. "Oh, the coffee. Yes, that was lovely. There's nothing like finding yourself having tapas with a woman who is about to engage in grave looting. She was well-dressed, mind you, no creeping through the headstones. Nope, she goes right to the source and takes it right off the body, apparently.

"I tried to drink that off, but being locked in a coffin for part of the evening tends to dampen your thirst. Didn't stop me from trying, but I ended up having tea and biscuits with my flatmate."

John paused his walking, holding out his hand for the therapist to place his file into. "Your flatmate?"

"Yes, he locked me in the coffin. We had a laugh about it all later."

"Was it your flatmate that had the…meat?"

John flipped through the file, checking the contents. "Yes. He does things like that."

The therapist raised an eyebrow and pushed his chair away by a fraction. "I see. Your flatmate does a lot of…experiments, then? In your flat?"

As he closed the file, John looked back up. "Like I said, he does things like that."

Breaking out in a sweat, the therapist stood. He started to held his hand out to shake but, with a twitch, pulled it back and made an awkward bowing motion. "Indeed. Well, I wish you good luck, Dr. Watson."

John left quickly. It wasn't until he was halfway to Baker street that he realized that his flatmate probably sounded like a serial killer when you describe his habits. When he was three blocks from Baker street, he received a text.

_Lestrade is here. Please come when convenient. SH_

Two blocks away, he received another.

_He is incoherent from laughter. Hurry. SH_

When he reached the street door, another text came, but John just climbed the stairs. Through the door, he could hear intermittent speech broken by giggles. Rather high pitched ones at that. He swung the door open.

"For god's sake, how long can it possibly take to sack a therapist?" Sherlock was pacing in his dressing gown, leaving a swirl of silk and surly temper in his wake. A weary laugh rose from Greg Lestrade before falling back to giggling. Sherlock flopped onto the sofa. "Shut up, Lestrade."

John dropped his coat. "What the hell is going on? This can't be about a case, can it?"

Sherlock harrumphed.

Lestrade wiped his eyes. "I got a call about a half hour ago from none other than Mycroft Holmes. It seems a call was phoned in to the police from a concerned citizen-" Greg tried to ignore the extravagant moan from the silk pile on the sofa, "regarding a rather disturbing description of a client's flatmate. He said he was worried about his client, and wanted to make sure he was safe."

Sherlock sprang from the sofa. Both John and Lestrade were too accustomed to these motions to be surprised. John got out his phone and prepared to start the tedious task of reestablishing his appointments with his prior therapist. Nothing was simple for a soldier, and things seemed to only be more complicated out of uniform.

Sherlock paced the room, spewing abuse towards the police, including the possibility of questionable marital status upon their birth.

John sat in his chair, notepad by his side to note a new appointment. "But… Mycroft?"

"My brother felt compelled to call my _handler_," Sherlock sneered, "to intercept the report and check on us himself. How _kind_, don't you think John?"

"Well, it is saving us the hassle of a police interview…wait, how did Mycroft know about the call?"

Sherlock shot a glare at Lestrade. "Mycroft has informants. I'm sure that once your therapist gave the police the address, some sort of protocol was activated." He strode to the kitchen and shuffled his stacks of notebooks behind the microscope. "Maybe your therapist has a direct line." He added. John dialed his phone and waited for it to pick up.

"Thank you, Lestrade. Now, out, unless you want to tell me about the case that has worried you and my brother so much that you haven't shaved for two days, eaten the overly-rich fare of high-street for the past three, and find yourself reading old print-outs of financial records all week?"

Something in Sherlock's voice made John look up as Lestrade palmed his forehead. Ah yes; now he saw it. The top of the medicine bottle in Greg's jacket pocket, and the ink stains on his fingertips, wrists and both shirt cuffs peeking from under his jacket. Large sheets, then, like old bookkeeper's notes.

Greg sighed, still rubbing his harassed head. "Let's just get on with it."

John, still grinning at his read of Lestrade, caught the fleeting smirk of triumph of Sherlock's face. He slipped into his bedroom, leaving John to offer a sympathetic nod to Lestrade while he continued to wait on hold.

A nasal voice finally picked up. "Yes, hello. This is John Watson, and I'd like to schedule… That's John, J-O-H-N. Yes, with an 'H'… Yes, I'll hold."

Sherlock zoomed back into the sitting room, now dressed and filled with the barely contained nervous energy that animated his every move. "Now, Lestrade, tell me about this case before I have to remind you that old financial reports on security paper can only be tampered with if the people have the paper, which is usually under restricted access, prior to printing. So I assume you have already spoken to any retired, fired or relocated employees from approximately-" Sherlock picked up Lestrade's hand and twisted it round to look at the wrist and fingertips- "ten to fifteen years ago?"

John watched and was impressed as always by the casual performance art that was Sherlock's method. The hold music was excruciating.

Greg stood and gathered up his phone to make the call. Sherlock slipped into his coat and was doubling his scarf when he looked down at John, still holding the phone to his ear. "Well?"

"Well what?" John asked, his pen at the ready to record his next appointment.

"Well, you could book your next appointment. I can put on the kettle before I go, then you and Mrs. Hudson can watch crap tele till one of you expires of utter mediocrity and boredom, or…"

"Or what?"

"You can hang up the phone and find out why a scandal is about to rock the entire financial world of London and possibly bring down Downing Street. Your choice." Sherlock leaned his head to one side, listening. "I've always wondered what an instrumental rendition of the Spice Girls would sound like. Now I know. Coming?"

John threw his pen in the general direction of his desk and leapt from the chair. "Oh god, yes."

~The End~

* * *

Thanks so much for reading! Hope you had a laugh.

-sfiddy


End file.
